


John 6:55-56

by seventeensteps



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: I'm so going to hell, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 15:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7178516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventeensteps/pseuds/seventeensteps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all happens in slow motion. Cassidy lets go. He finally has that bottle – which, yay, he doesn’t know why it’s important he has to have this, but it is – then the recently secured bottle slips out of Jesse’s grasp, and tumbles down to meet the wooden floor with a <em>crash.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	John 6:55-56

 

_"For my flesh is real food and my blood is real drink._  
_Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them."_

**_John 6:55-56_ **

  

They are drunk.

Well, not really.

To paraphrase, he’s on the fun side of inebriate, and Cass seems just a little tipsy. They talk about God and things and life in general, but when the conversation starts to steer too much toward  _his_  matter, Jesse tries to turn it back around. "Why we always talking about me? What’s your story, Cassidy?"

The man looks at him, exhaling the smoke, glances away, before turning back again. Cassidy looks straight into his eyes, his gray ones, forever playful, gaining a bit of a sharp edge. “No, it’s pretty typical, really. I am 119-year-old vampire from Dublin City.

Jesse snorts, and starts giggling.

Cassidy continues, ignoring the sniggering man, “And I’m currently on the run from a group of vampire-hunting religious vigilantes who keep tracking me down somehow.” He looks away again, grimaces. “What else?” He pretends to think. “I’m a right-handed Sagittarius. I love Chinese food. I’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean. And I think that _The Big Lebowski_ ’s overrated,” he says, matter-of-factly.

"Vampire, huh?" Jesse purses his lips. “Sounds like fun.”

“Can be.” The self-proclaimed vampire pauses, weird-looking bottle kissing his lips, “Sometimes.”

Jesse’s interest is piqued. “Whatcha got there?”

One finger comes up, waggles at him, its owner downing some of the liquid. “Mnh-mnh. No.”

“Let me see that,” he demands.

The bastard frowns, face serious. “No I shan’t. It’s too potent for ya. Leave it out.” Cassidy says this with the demeanor of an adult warning a child.

He is not a fucking child. “Give it.”

“After a sip of this, you’re not going to feel like one of the “good guys,” all right?” Cassidy explains slowly, air quote and all. Like he gives a shit. “So just-”

“Give me that!” he yells, one hand shooting out, gripping the bottle, and _yanks_.

Cassidy doesn’t let go of the bottle at first, but he then relents. “All right, all right! Don’t spill it! Don’t spill it-”

It all happens in slow motion. Cassidy lets go. He finally has that bottle – which, yay, he doesn’t know why it’s important he has to have this, but it is – then the recently secured bottle slips out of Jesse’s grasp, and tumbles down to meet the wooden floor with a _crash_.

 

 

 

Cassidy watches the spilled liquid seeping out and away from the broken shards of glass, and says, “Shite.”

He looks up at the man standing on the other side of this mess, stunned, a bit sober, and very much _awake_. “Damn. Sorry,” he mumbles. At least he still has the decency to apologise.

But he isn’t supposed to be apologising, or standing up at all! How’s he going to grab his keys and wallet now? Cassidy debates whether to outright steal them and run, but even if he’s a bloodsucker, getting roughed up isn’t always fun, and no matter how drunk Jesse seems to be, Cassidy suspects he’s going to end up in a bloody pulp if he attempts that anyway.

“Stop brooding,” Jesse interrupts his train of thought, and lord, when did he get _this_ _close_. “’s just a fucking drink. You prob’ly drank tons more church wine than that lil’ bottle anyhow.”

This close, the preacher smells even more enticing. “I brewed that shite meself.”

“Aw.” Jesse seizes two fistfuls of his shirt, swaying lightly, and pushes him backward onto the nearest row of wooden bench, and- _fuck_ , topples down on top of him. “Don’t sulk. You said you a vamp, right? Drink _my_ blood instead, then. Hmm? Come on,” says the man, eyes half-lidded, hair messy, lips red and glistened from the alcohol before.

_Whooooooooa_. Oooo-kay. He now has a lapful of half-sober, inviting, enticing preacher with sexy body who doesn’t know shite, telling him to just _drink_ _his blood_. Cassidy doesn’t think he’s much of a “good guy,” see? And Jesse smells so fucking delicious, and he can feel his fangs lengthened on their own, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , he wants so much to just- He just, really, really _wants_.

But Jesse also lets him stay here, without having to pay anything, and Cassidy thinks he’s not stupid enough to sabotage that. And Jesse, Jesse’s, he’s…

“Nope,” Cassidy says, popping the P. “No, thank you, Padre, but I don’t think you know anything about what you’re proposing at all.”

“Oh? Maybe. But I think I know something about _this_.” Long fingers snake between them and press against him, and, oh, _oh fuck,_ he’s hard. The man wiggles his eyebrow at Cassidy when he sees the recognition lights up on his face. Now that he’s come out of the haze of hunger, however brief it may be, Cassidy notices the hardness pushing against his stomach. And Jesse doesn’t look so drunk right now.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” The man quirks his expressive eyebrow at him, looking moderately annoyed. “You just gonna sit there doing nothing or what?”

Cassidy settles both his hands on each side of Jesse’s hips. “May I ask what’s going on, Padre?”

Jesse smirks, (Cassidy doubts he was even drunk in the first place.) and place his arms on top of Cassidy’s shoulders, leaning closer, mouth lingering mere inches away. What a fucking tease. “So I see the way you look at me.”

He licks his lips. “And?”

Jesse tilts his head. “And you look like you want to eat me up.”

Well. “Not wrong.” He squeezes the flesh in his hands, fingers digging lower.

Jesse’s smile grows even more smug. He rolls his hips once, twice, three times, pulling a grunt out of him. “So what’re you waiting for?”

Cassidy really has to shut that mouth up.

He crosses the last few inches and opens his mouth to accept the questing tongue, and pushes Jesse back before he accidentally nicks that mischievous organ with his canines. It takes a lot of will to pull away and press the kiss into the side of his mouth instead. Jesse tries to follow with a whine that makes Cassidy wants to just bite those lips bloody. Careful with his teeth, he sucks a mark into the spot just below his jawline that make Jesse yield so easily, going pliant in his arms, creating all these small noises in the back of his throat. It drives him fucking nuts.

“Cass,” he pants, nipping at his ear, “c’mon.”

He kneads the flesh in his hands, sucking another love bite onto sensitive skin, feeling the stubble grazing his cheek. “Your arse is a sin, Padre. Tell me, how am I gonna stop sinning?”

Jesse unbuttons his jeans, and reaches inside, stroking and pulling him out, dragging a long moan out of Cassidy. “You can confess to me later.”

“ _Fuck-_ no you didn’t. _”_ He can feel the orgasm building from the core of his being, and has to bite his own lip in order to stop his mouth from latching onto the delicious skin in front of him. He is embarrassingly close, just a few more tugs and he’s done, and from the smug expression of the preacher on top of him, he knows it, too. Cassidy only hopes he can last a bit longer than that.

And then Jesse, eyes smouldering and like sex itself, does this thing with his hand that involves a skillful twist of his wrist and his thumb rubbing at his slit, and Cassidy is gone, gone, _gone_.

Turns out he’s even quicker than that.

Cassidy opens his eyes to an image that almost, _almost_ , gets him hard and ready to go again.

His come, white and sticky and filthy, painting the black uniform of a holy position; Jesse’s own red and leaking cock curves against his shirt, messing precome all over. Jesse himself is twisting his hips, lips parted, eyes glazed over, dark hair mussed and mad and perfect.

It’s a sight of pure beauty.

“C’mon,” Jesse gasps into his mouth, not touching himself, licking Cassidy’s bloodied lips.

He tastes his blood on Jesse’s tongue, feeling his control slipping. He really needs to feed after this. Maybe another cow, or maybe something more exciting. But now, “What do you want, darling. Say it, I’m at your command.”

Jesse groans, grinding down against him, “Touch me.”

Flipping Jesse down onto the wooden bench and kneeling in between his thighs, he puts his hand around Jesse, slow and gentle and not enough. “Yes, sir,” he answers, and dips his head down to envelopes the smooth, shining head, and _sucks_. Jesse lets out a low, lovely keen, fingers digging into Cassidy’s shoulder, his thighs so tensed and still as if trying really hard not to thrust in all the way. Cassidy’s name falling out of the lips that preach the words of God every Sunday morning like a prayer. He nearly weeps at that.

Cassidy strokes him quickly, tonguing the underside, relishes in the sound of his name. He senses the quicker flow of the blood rushing through the femoral artery even before Jesse grips his hair and yanks. He sucks the head one last time, before pulling away, barely in time for the white stripe of come to shoot across his mouse and nose and cheek. He kisses the now sensitive head again, and looks up, meeting the sated gaze of the man above him. Jesse wipes most of the come away with the corner of his shirt, and pulls him up onto the bench with him.

“We’ll need to clean this up,” he comments, tiredly, and rests his head on top of Cassidy’s shoulder.

He feels his mouth salivate. “Yeah.” Cassidy tries not to think if this is a one-time thing or it will turn into a recurring occurrence, but if it really becomes a thing that happens more regularly, Cassidy needs to feed more often, too.

For now, he sits there, with the warmth of his Padre at his side.                              

“I like _The Big Lebowski_ ,” says the preacher suddenly, soft and smothered by the silence darkness of the church.

“No. No, that’s a shite film.” Cassidy grins. “But you, too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> (Thank you for reading!)


End file.
